


If we can't find where we belong (We'll have to make it on our own)

by MsPeppernose



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: AU, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Time Travel, selfcest, wetnzcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 06:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6504916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsPeppernose/pseuds/MsPeppernose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete time travels back to 2005 to give his younger-self the pep talk and comfort he always needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If we can't find where we belong (We'll have to make it on our own)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote myself a ridiculous present.
> 
> Thank you to Immoral Crow for her unending patience. And for changing the entire tone of this with her wonderful ideas <3
> 
> Title from MCR / the only hope for me is you

When Pete’s head stops spinning he chances opening his eyes. He’s in a too-bright bathroom, and his guess is that he’s in a hotel. He’s a little disorientated so he sits down on the closed toilet seat to steady himself. The junk on the sink and surrounding area looks familiar, there’s a bottle of Bone Daddy with the lid off on the side of the bath, and there’s a balled up Clandestine hoody on the floor; this is all his shit.

It’s his shit, but it’s his shit from a long time ago. Which means...

Pete decides to head out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, and he knows from memory that there’s only one person in there. 

The hotel room is in semi-darkness, lit only by a bedside lamp and the flickering television, and Pete can’t help but smile when he sees the solitary figure on the bed switching stations mindlessly.

Pete watches the figure for a moment and takes in what he sees; the slumped body language, the sullen pout, the mop of dark hair, the really fucking awesome batman pyjama bottoms he has on. The guy doesn’t spot Pete, not yet, and he just stares at the television chewing on a fingernail absorbed in his own world. When he does notice, it’s a double take - a quick glance before it registers that there’s someone else in the room, and then he nearly falls off the bed in shock.

“What the fuck? Who the fuck? How the-”  
“Dude, it’s cool, okay? Just. Don’t freak out.”

Pete watches him freak out wordlessly for a minute, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to process not only the fact that there’s someone in his hotel room who clearly did not come in through the front door, but that it’s an older version of himself. Pete remembers this; the confusion and fear of seeing _himself_ but not quite. That would freak anyone out, never mind a mentally unstable, sleep-deprived, anxiety ridden kid like Pete knows he was in - wait, Pete doesn’t know when exactly he’s travelled back in time to, if it’s the date he thinks it is or if he’s maybe off a little.

“What year is it?” he asks carefully.  
“What?” his younger self says, raking his hand through his flat-ironed hair and making it stand up on end.  
“What year is it?”

The younger Pete just blinks at him, incredulous. “I’m having a nervous breakdown,” he mutters. “My meds are fucked up and I’m hallucinating. I’m seeing a dude who looks like me, but on fucking steroids, and he’s asking me what year it is.” He rubs his hands over his eyes, as if that will make everything okay. Pete walks towards him, arms outstretched in what he hopes is a non-threatening way.

“You’re not hallucinating.”  
“Yes I am.”  
“You’re not.” Pete sighs, knowing that this sounds ridiculous. “Look, I’m you, okay? I’m you from the future.” His younger self makes a face and moves backwards up the bed, away from Pete. “I know it sounds crazy. But just tell me what year it is.”  
“2005. November.”  
Pete smiles. “Thought so. So you did Warped, got your heart broken by Mikey Way, Fall Out Boy are doing amazingly well, and your own mental health is making you feel like you’re drowning rather than staying afloat. Am I close? It’s hard to remember what happened when. That whole time is a blur.”  
“Yeah,” the younger Pete says. “That’s pretty much it.” He stares and stares and finally the tension in his shoulders relaxes a little. “So you’re me? Like, actually me? You’re not a hallucination? Because if you are, you gotta tell me.”  
“I’m you.”  
“Why are you here? Apart from to freak me the fuck out?””

Pete sighs again. He moves across the room and decides to sit on the bed. Non-threatening, he thinks. He remembers being this version of himself. He remembers when Fall Out Boy hit the big time and his mental health took a plunge. He looks himself dead in the eye and feels all the horrible anxiety, fear, misery and pent-up anger he used to feel on a daily basis. Even just remembering it now is really difficult to process.

“I wanted to tell you that it’s going to be okay.”  
“What’s going to be okay? Way to be vague, dude.”  
Pete resists rolling his eyes. “Everything. It’s all going to be fine. Eventually. I know how you feel right now because I’ve felt it. I know how shitty it is. And there’s some really fucking hard days to come, so I’m not going to promise that every day is a dance around the maypole for the next eleven years, because it’s not. But things get better. And you get better at dealing with things.”  
“Man, you sound like my fucking therapist.”  
“Right?” Pete laughs. “Maybe she’s right? For some things at least?”

Pete’s younger self just sits there and he looks a little sullen, his brow crinkling as he processes what Pete’s just told him. “So I don’t feel like this anymore?” he finally asks. “No depression? No anxiety? No crushing doom or freakouts?”

Pete can’t lie to himself like this, there’s no point. “There’s some. I still get anxiety. I still get bad days, bad weeks. But it’s not so bad. There’s things that help. Friends. Family. Exercise. More therapy. Things get better, I promise.”

“Okay,” Pete’s younger self says slowly like he’s not really buying it. “If you really are from the future, can I ask some questions? Like are Fall Out Boy still going, or did I fuck it up?”  
“The band’s still going.” He doesn’t mention the hiatus, doesn’t feel the need to.  
“Do me and Mikey ever get back together?”  
“Nope.” And when he sees his younger counterpart’s face drop, he says, “Sorry, buddy. That was a summer romance only. But you’re good friends.”  
“So if the band is still around, are me and Patrick still friends? I always feel like I’m one bad joke away from him walking out on me.”  
“Oh, he’s still around,” Pete says. He remembers that feeling, like Patrick’s too good to be true and he will inevitably get sick of all Pete’s shit. He really wants to tell his former self that he and Patrick are not just friends, not just bandmates. He wants to say that they finally admitted things to each other that they’d been keeping secret for so long, finally got it together. Maybe that one is best kept as an awesome surprise though, because Pete will never forget the moment when he finally got to give in to the longing he felt in his heart. He’ll never forget the moment of surprise when Patrick kissed him back either. 

“So he doesn’t hate me?” His younger self asks, looking like relief is coursing through him.  
“Not even close. Patrick’s the best dude, right?” The younger Pete stares at Pete when he says that, but if he picks up on anything, he doesn’t mention it.  
“So what else can you tell me, then? You’re from eleven years in the future? Do we have, like flying cars and shit?”  
Pete laughs again. “No. But we have some cool stuff. You’ll see. I don’t want to give too much away, it’s not why I’m here. I just-- I needed to be able to tell myself what I always wanted to hear. Just an _it will be okay_.”

Younger Pete just stares, and Pete thinks maybe it’s finally sinking in. This night might be a little blurry around the edges for Pete eleven years down the line, but he for sure remembers the relief he felt afterwards. He knows it’s finally stuck with him when his younger self says, “You’re really not fucking with me, are you?”  
“Nope.” And then he says something which he thinks will sound stupid, even if it’s what he would have wanted at this time of his life. “You want to hug it out?”

“Hug you? Like, hug myself?” The kid looks small in his over sized shirt. He still tried to keep himself is decent shape back then, hitting the gym sporadically, still wanting to look okay if he took his shirt off, feeling like it would help people like him more or something. But Pete can feel how small he is right now when he wraps his arms around his younger self’s body and holds on tight. He feels his younger self hug back so tightly that he doesn’t want to let go. He remembers so many times back then that all he wanted was a hug and someone to tell him things weren’t going to stay fucked up. He wanted to be able to do it without burdening his friends or bandmates, without freaking out his therapist, and this is the perfect way.

The hug _sort of_ ends, in that the grip loosens, but he keeps this younger Pete in his arms and Pete gives in to the urge to pet his hair.

 

“This is weird,” Pete finally says, and his younger self just giggles without moving away.  
“It’s so fucking weird. I can’t tell anyone about this can I?” Younger Pete says, his face still tucked in against Pete’s body.  
“Not a good idea. I’m pretty sure this will make people worry about you more than usual. Maybe we keep this just between us.”  
“I can keep secrets,” his younger self says, and Pete just nods. Secret keeping is something he’s always been good at, and he kept tonight secret from everyone but Patrick for years and years. He just pets his younger self’s hair again until young Pete pulls away suddenly.

“Hey, stand up. I want to see what I look like when I’m old,” the younger Pete says with a mischievous smile.  
“Watch it!” Pete warns playfully. “You won’t think you’re old when you’re my age.”  
“Whatever. Fuck, I do look good for an old dude.” The younger Pete eyes him appreciatively, and Pete just laughs this time. “Why the blond hair? Big Eminem fan?”  
Pete ignores the comment and just says, “I wanted something different. It’s a bitch to keep up though.”  
“Why get all beefed up?”  
“Why the fuck not?” Pete says, trying not to sound defensive. “You don’t want guns like this?”

He flexes an arm watching his emo-self watch the muscle in his arm bulge and distort the ink there. Then his younger self pokes him in the bicep as if he’s checking if he’s real again, checking if the muscle is real perhaps.

As this younger version of himself squeezes his bicep lightly and says, “Nice,” under his breath, Pete thinks how _pretty_ he used to be with his artfully smudged liner and carefully straightened hair. He’s certain that Patrick would say he’s being narcissistic to think of himself like that, but he feels like it’s a thought closer to, _I should have appreciated how I looked when I had the chance_. His past self catches his eyes, and Pete knows that look so well.

“Would it be weird if I asked you to take your shirt off? I wanna see how ripped you are?”  
“Kinda weird, but kinda not, I guess,” Pete says, and proceeds to peel off his tank top.

Younger Pete’s eyes go wide. “Fuck, dude. I’m hot,” he says, and he’s laughing like he wasn’t expecting it. He spends a while looking at Pete’s tattoos; the thorns, the Nightmare sleeve that’s mirrored on his younger self’s own body, and his eyes go wide as he traces Jack Skellington’s face with a fingertip. From the look on his face he seems to finally believe that this is real, that _Pete_ is really here, and Pete breathes a silent sigh of relief. Pete feels his younger self’s hands on him then, and not just on his bicep. There’s fingers on his abs, his V-line, and then as his younger counterpart does a circle around him, on his shoulders and lower back too. He knows his younger self is being more brazen than he’d been with boys up until now, boys other than Mikey anyway, but Pete doesn’t mind at all, because he knows how tonight ends. 

“Sorry,” his scrawny-self says. “I guess that’s kinda weird if I touch you -- even if I’m touching myself. Does it feel weird?”  
“Actually no,” Pete confesses. “Feels nice.”  
“Patrick would laugh at me for asking this -- but, I mean, it’s an odd thing to ask, but -- maybe I shouldn’t say -”  
“Spit it out!”  
“Wanna make out?”

Pete laughs, not because it’s a ridiculous idea, but because of the pained and worried expression on his younger self’s face as he says it, like this is an idea that will get him punched...or laughed at.

“Yes,” Pete says resolutely, because why the fuck not? Who ever gets to kiss themselves? It’s an experience if nothing else. “Kissing’s fun, and it’d comfort you, right?”  
There’s a wicked twinkle in his younger self’s eye when he replies, “Comfort. Right.”

He’s...a surprisingly good kisser, which is a very odd thought because no one ever gets to know for sure. But his younger self is enthusiastic, eager to please, even if he’s a little sloppy as he kisses Pete’s mouth, his lips. He’s handsy too, but Pete hasn’t changed all that much since back then in that department - Patrick could vouch for that - and he smiles into the kiss at the thought. It encourages the younger Pete, and he steps up the kissing, delves into Pete’s mouth with his tongue and slides his hands around Pete’s waist to reel him in.

“Jeez,” Pete murmurs. “I don’t remember being such an eager little shit.”  
“Fuck you.”  
“Fuck me?” Pete laughs.  
“Well,” his younger safe says, sounding more than a little unsure. “I’m not sure if I -”  
“It’s cool, dude. Don’t worry. Don’t freak out, okay?” Pete says, echoing himself from when he first arrived. He can see the sudden nerves on his younger self’s face and he remembers he hadn’t been with many dudes back then, just Mikey Way and a couple of other scene guys and it was never more than handjobs. Back then he was still try to hang onto his _gay above the waist_ thing. Not so much any more. “Just a joke. We don’t have to do anything.” Though really Pete knows that what’s going to happen.

The younger Pete makes a little face, a cute considering one, as Pete watches the cogs turn in his head. “We could do _stuff_ , you know.”  
“Oh, yeah?” Pete teases.  
“Like fool around a bit, maybe. I’ll bet I know what you like.”

Pete laughs heartily at that. “No, dude. I’ll bet I know what _you_ like. There’s so many things I’ve learned I like since I was your age.”  
His younger counterpart scoffs at first, the cheeky little shit, but then he looks Pete up and down and his eyes go all dark. “Go on then. Show me something.”

Well, shit. Now Pete can feel a little pressure, but he knows what he’s done with boys up until this point, so he can certainly pull something fun and new and utterly hot out of the bag.

He nods. “C’mere.” He gathers his younger self into his arms and gives him a firm kiss.

The kissing is far more heated this time, and Pete wastes no time sliding his hands under his younger self’s shirt and then pulling it off. There’s soft, warm skin underneath that feels so nice under his hands. His younger self, as eager as he is, is good with his hands, exploring carefully but quickly, leaving no patch of skin untouched.

There’s no need for nerves or formality as they undress each other; they’ve obviously both seen it all before, just from a different perspective.

Pete spends a long minute looking at his younger self’s naked body. It’s his own body, but...not. The scars are the same, the skin tone is the same, most of the tattoos are the same, but the muscle structure is different, and so is the posture, the body hair. Pete can’t be bothered to shave his chest much anymore, and though he still does some manscaping, it’s much more relaxed. Back in 2005 he removed almost every hair; smooth chest, smooth balls, no happy trail. All gone. It’s a pretty sight, even if he does say so himself, and he makes a note to shave when he gets back to his own time, just for a change. 

His younger self is looking too, and then his fingertip trails down the frayed rope of hair that leads from his navel down to the dark patch of pubic hair. “I actually like the hair, maybe I’ll skip shaving for a week or two.”

It is, of course, very strange to be naked with a person that is identical to you, without the weirdness of doing it with a twin. But as strange as it is, it’s pretty hot to see himself from a slightly outside perspective, to see what his body looks like when it’s not reversed in a mirror (or phone camera). It’s also _incredibly_ hot when he and his younger self press together and he can feel his dick press against...well, his dick. He drops his hand so that he can wrap his palm around both dicks together and gives a single slow, tight stroke. He can feel the pulse and throb of blood in his younger self’s dick. Pete knows this version of himself feels it too because he bites his lip and lets out a rough little grunt. And that is surprisingly hot, too, because he’s never considered all those sex-sounds and faces he pulls when he’s turned on to be anything other than awkward, but...he looks good.

“You’re not just gonna jerk us off are you?” He asks, and Pete wants to smack his former self for being an exasperating little shit.  
“No, but be patient, okay? I said I’d show you stuff, but let me build up to it.” He wants to say _don’t ruin it_ but he’ll just laugh at himself. “Lie down. Spread your legs.”  
“Bossy,” his younger self snickers. But he crawls up the bed and lies down in the centre. He spreads his legs about six inches wide and then thinks the better of it and goes for a foot wider.  
Pete outright laughs. “You like bossy. Trust me.”  
“I do?”  
“You will.”

Pete grins at the sight of himself naked on the bed and then climbs onto the covers after. He nudges his younger self’s legs a little wider and kneels between them. He strokes his hands up his thighs and then leans all the way over to kiss him carefully. His younger counterpart is nervous, he knows that much. He remembers the nerves, but there was also this excited electricity in his veins that he feels an imprint of right now.

“Suck on my fingers,” Pete says, and offers his younger self two fingers, holding them an inch away from his full lips.  
“What? Why?”

Pete gives him a look, and his younger self just rolls his eyes and dutifully opens his mouth for Pete to slide two fingers inside. Pete watches intently as his younger, bratty self purses his lips, hollows his cheeks, swirls his tongue and basically makes a show of sucking on Pete’s fingers. Pete tries not to laugh because he does the exact same thing when Patrick asks him to suck _his_ fingers. Pete slides his fingers out slowly, and without breaking eye contact he moves his wet fingers down to between Pete’s legs.

“Whoa. Are you going to-? In my ass?”  
“Do you not want me to?”

Pete watches his younger self’s face for a second and he wonders if he’ll say no, even if Pete’s been here before and knows the answer. He doesn’t of course, he just says, “Do it,” with a smirk, and Pete goes for it. He presses his finger against the tight ring of muscle and his younger self’s hips stutter and jerk. He tries to remember the first time he got fingered and the odd, full feeling of having someone’s fingers inside him, so foreign but so fucking hot. He keeps watching his younger self’s face as he pushes his fingers in up to the first knuckle, and it’s strangely _gorgeous_ to see himself squirm and close his eyes, lick his lips.

He remembers how this goes - not all the details, but he remembers how he felt. 

This night was important. It proved to him that there was a future, and no matter how grim things got over the years - the dick pics, the hiatus, his divorce - he was able to hang onto that hope. It's only when he dips his head and takes the first long lick up his cock that he realises that for the first time in years, he's on his own. 

It's a bittersweet thought and he pushes it to the back of his mind, gets ready to take his younger self apart with his fingers and tongue and lips. He'd felt important that night - seen - and as he strokes his fingers over the golden skin of his hips, it's suddenly very, very easy to focus completely on the body in front of him. 

As strange as it should be to have _his own_ dick in his mouth, it doesn’t feel that weird. He’s tasted his own jizz before, and he’s certain that most guys would happily give themselves blowjobs if they could just bend the right way. 

Though he knows his younger counterpart has been blown before countless times, Pete starts off slow because all the blowjobs before this were from girls, and in his head this felt like much more than just getting his dick sucked. Pete wants to make it as good as he can, as good as it felt from the other side. He sucks on the head, sinks down only a little and sucks again, pushing his fingers in just a little bit more.

“So, fingering, huh?” Pete’s younger self says breathlessly, breaking the silence.  
Pete murmurs an _Uh huh_ around his dick, and then pulls off to say, “Oh, yeah. It’s good, right?”  
“Fuck yeah.”  
“There’s a lot that you’re gonna learn you like.” Pete moves his fingers, crooks them just right, and his younger self bucks his hips wildly. “Wait ‘til you get rimmed. Jesus, fuck. That’s the promised land. Or getting fucked. You’ll have a dildo in your ass before you have a dick there, but it’s pretty fucking special.”  
His younger self just groans in reply and murmurs, “I like this. I want everything.”  
“I know,” Pete says with a smirk, and sinks back down to blow his younger self again.

His younger self threads a hand into Pete’s hair and places the other on his shoulder, holding him there, grounding them both.

Pete works hard, and pays attention to the sounds he hears, how this other body reacts. He also does the things he likes like twisting his fingers until he finds that perfect spot, massaging it slow and intense with the pad of his finger until younger-Pete is a babbling mess. Pete thinks there might be some sort of incoherent warning that there’s an orgasm imminent, but he stays put and sucks hard and tight until he feels the bitter, salty taste of his own spunk flood his mouth.

The younger Pete looks really gorgeous, Pete thinks wistfully, all messy hair and smudged eyeliner, and he looks like his skin is glowing. And _that’s_ what he looks like when he’s coming. Huh.

“You good?” Pete asks.  
“Yeah, yeah. So good. Fuck. So, so good,” Pete younger counterpart says. “That was unreal. Just give me a minute.”  
“Take all the minutes you need,” Pete says, patting him on the thigh and sitting back on his heels. 

His younger self opens his eyes and watches him with a curious expression. “Wait, so what about rimming?”  
“Dude, I think even _I_ draw the line at licking my own asshole. Plus, you’ll never guess who eats you out for the first time. You don’t want to miss that experience.” 

Pete’s younger self looks fucked out, and so goddamn relaxed, especially compared to how freaked out he was earlier. “So, I’m not sure what I can do, but I wanna make you feel good too.”

Pete knows. He grins and settles back between his younger self’s thighs, but the opposite way this time so that they’re facing the same way and his back is against his younger self’s chest. “Well, I know all too well how good you are at jerking off, so come on.” He pulls an arm around himself and the younger Pete just chuckles in his ear and wraps his hand around Pete’s cock.

Pete lets himself relax, lets himself lean his head back on his younger self’s shoulder and enjoy being jerked off. He’s had jacking off down to a tee since he was a teen so he knows this’ll be good. He remembers the fear of not making his older self come, the fear he wouldn’t be experienced enough with boys to make it good, but jerking off he can do and do fucking _perfectly_. Pete watches the hand that’s his but not _his_ stroke his dick impeccably, and when another hand that’s not his rubs his chest and plays with his nipples he’s murmuring and writhing. He holds out as long as he can, knowing that this is the last memory he’ll likely have of an orgasm with his other-self, but then he’s coming and coming, and he gets lost in his release.

“Jeez,” his younger self snickers behind him. “You come fast for an old man.”  
“Fuck you, kiddo,” Pete laughs back. “I’ve known this night was coming for a long time. You won’t last any longer when it’s your turn. You _can’t._  
“Alright, fine. So, like this is just masturbation, right?”  
“Sex with yourself?” Pete laughs, obviously on the same page. He’s thought about that joke for years. “Yeah, totally.”

Pete moves again so that he’s lying down alongside himself, resting his palm on his younger self’s chest. He looks himself over and sees the eyeliner that’s smudged all to hell now and those perfectly straightened emo bangs sticking up on end and he grins, happy and content, and not at all thinking about the future.

“Dude, is it weird that this is the most relaxed I’ve been in a long time. Like, I can’t remember not worrying about something before tonight?” Pete’s younger self asks.  
“Nope. Hold on to that feeling for as long as you can, too,” Pete says, because he knows that those moments of pure comfort slip away so easily. Whether it’s an evening in Patrick’s arms or a conversation with his older, hopefully wiser self, nothing lasts for as long as he’d like.  
“So will you come back to visit me?”  
“Can’t. It’s hard to explain, but I only get one shot at this. I’m hoping future-Pete figures out how to come back to visit me in 2016, though.”  
“Maybe he has a flying car.”  
“I know, right? Or those self-closing sneakers from Back To The Future.”

Pete loses track of time talking to himself about nothing in particular. He tries not to give much information away about the future, but he lets some little things slip about the band and politics and some awesome music that will be out in the next couple of years. It’s nothing life changing; he wants the awesome things that will happen to him to remain surprises. He also wants himself to deal with the awful things by himself too because as shitty as they all were, they’ve made him stronger in the long run.

As much as tonight has been about comforting his younger self, a man so desperately in need of a hopeful light in the dark, he’s gotten enough comfort from this to bring back to the future with him too. When he watches this young, slightly broken and messed up version of himself he sees how far he’s come, how well he’s done, how good he’s been at taking care of himself all these years. Maybe he had a spark of hope to follow, but he’s the one that put the hard work in and maybe he can carry himself thought for another eleven years, this time without the promise that it will all be okay. Maybe he knows that already.

After a while he knows he has to leave, and he also knows he’s not going to make a scene of it. His younger counterpart is sleepy and cuddly, so Pete untangles himself with the excuse of using the bathroom. He manages to grab his pants discretely on the way. 

When the bathroom door is shut he takes a long look at himself in the mirror, wondering how things are going to go from now on without that safety net of a confirmed hopeful future. He pushes it down as he sprays himself with some Bone Daddy, wondering if he can still get this stuff in 2016. He pulls on his jeans, and in the absence of a shirt he grabs the balled up Clan hoody from the floor and pulls it on, zipping it up over his bare chest. On a whim he grabs a black kohl pencil from the counter and uncaps it, scrawling a message on the mirror. He remembers, back in 2005, waking up alone and finding this message. He scribbles out _The last time you came though. I know what you’re going through_ , something he’s repeated to himself all these years when things were tough.

Right after that things get spinny again. Pete blacks out for a minute, and before he knows he’s back where he started from, back in 2016.

The first thing Pete does when he sees Patrick is kiss him, warm and firm and perfect, and Patrick smiles against his lips. 

“So it went well?” Patrick murmurs.  
“Yeah,” Pete says, though he knew it would.

Patrick pulls back and eyes Pete up and down and rubs the zip of the hoody between his fingers. “Is that his hoody? Yours, I mean. I remember it. Haven’t see it in years.”  
“Yeah, it’s his. Mine. Whatever. I knew I lost it, I just didn’t know I’d taken it himself.”

Patrick plays with the zip absentmindedly, and he looks like he’s thinking of something else. He zips it down half a dozen inches to reveal Pete’s bare chest underneath. “Weren’t you wearing something else? A ripped up Metallica shirt?”  
Pete shrugs, trying to keep the grin off his face.  
“You did it, didn’t you?”  
“I know know idea what you’re talking about, Pattycakes!”

Patrick laughs long and loud and Pete joins in. “You actually fucked yourself? Jesus Christ, Pete!”  
“I blew myself!” Pete says. He’d told Patrick about tonight, but omitted the sordid details, keeping them locked away. The tiny hints he’d dropped about a rendezvous were always brushed away by Patrick, never really believing that Pete would do sexy things with himself.  
“That’s just as crazy.”

Pete wraps his arm around Patrick’s shoulders and pulls him in for a hug. “You can call me crazy, but it was amazing. Hey, maybe if I can go back again, or if future-me comes back here, me and him could double-team you.”

Patrick just laughs harder. “What the fuck? I’d have to deal with two of you? Two bratty Wentzs?”  
Pete smirks and slides his hands down to cup Patrick’s ass through his jeans. “Yeah, but there’d be two pairs of hands, two mouths…Think about that.”

Patrick pulls back, but he takes Pete’s hand and leads him towards the bedroom. “Tell me more.”


End file.
